


pour like honey through the darkness

by andibeth82



Category: Marvel (Comics), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst and Feels, Banter, Bisexuality, Bucky Barnes & Clint Barton Friendship, Established Relationship, F/M, M/M, Natasha apparently doesn't deal with her feelings that well, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-27
Updated: 2018-02-27
Packaged: 2019-03-24 22:08:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13820433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andibeth82/pseuds/andibeth82
Summary: “It’s not you,” Clint admits. “I don’t know what it is. It’s...it’s all of this. Natasha’s alive and I still love her, and maybe you do too, and --”“What, you know I love her so you feel like you can’t?” Bucky smiles. “Have you ever known Natasha Romanoff to have not loved more than one person at the same time?”





	pour like honey through the darkness

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fic that has been in my head, more or less, since Natasha's "death" post Secret Empire -- though to be honest I think it's been around much longer than that and just needed a push in the right direction. This is based in comic canon but you don't need any knowledge of the comics to read it -- it's basically a lot of feelings and a lot of banter. Honestly, that's really the whole thing: a lot of feelings.
> 
> Anyway, I've been wanting to do a threesome with these three for awhile, so I'm just glad this finally came to fruition even if it took longer than I expected. Endless thanks to **CloudAtlas** for beta, thinky thoughts and general fic chatter. You helped make this SO much better than what it would have been.  <3
> 
>  
> 
> _“From space, astronauts can see people making love as a tiny speck of light. Not light, exactly, but a glow that could be confused for light - a coital radiance that takes generations to pour like honey through the darkness to the astronaut's eyes._
> 
>  
> 
> _In about one and a half centuries - after the lovers who made the glow will have long since been laid permanently on their backs - the metropolitan cities will be seen from space. They will glow all year. Smaller cities will also be seen, but with great difficulty. Towns will be virtually impossible to spot. Individual couples invisible.”_  
>   
>  ― Jonathan Safran Foer, Everything Is Illuminated

When it comes down to it, Natasha feels that her options are pretty limited. She could run -- she’s spent her whole life running, and it’s not like she doesn’t have anywhere to go. She has a ton of places to go; the world may have gone to shit but she still knows where each little bolthole is, each nook and cranny from here to the furthest reaches of the Netherlands, hidden and untouched.

She likes to think that if she’s learned anything while becoming what Fury and Clint would call a “real person,” it’s that she can actually understand emotions and take responsibility as opposed to fight or flight. Except the more Natasha thinks about it, the more she knows she’s going to have a problem being honest. Just because she’s become someone who gives a crap about her feelings -- an actual human being, an individual with her own choices and motivations as opposed to a Soviet-inspired tool -- it doesn’t mean that she likes dealing with those feelings.

So she decides to die.

She dies and then hides in the rafters during her own funeral, smiling sardonically when they refer to her as a hero and rolling her eyes when they make sure to mention some of her “greatest hits.” They did quite a nice job of memorializing her, because she never thought she’d be memorialized with something like a pretty photo that makes her look like a suburban housewife. She suspects that’s Clint’s doing; certainly no one else cares that much about how she should be remembered.

(She tries not to look at the back of Clint’s body, his straight spine and hardened fists showing more emotion than she knows she would see if she was looking at his face.)

It’s a fitting way to go, if not a little messy -- having a Nazi-brainwashed Avenger slice your neck open with a shield isn’t her idea of a good time, even though she knows how to move so that it only _looks_ like he nicked a major artery. But it’s certainly dramatic, and no one will ever accuse her of _not_ being dramatic until the very end. She’s the Black Widow, after all.

The low hum of sorrowful music starts to play as the few mourners begin to rise. As they prepare to say their goodbyes, Natasha says hers by sneaking out of her hiding place and disappearing into the night.

 

***

 

After the funeral, Clint goes home.

He tries to move on with his life -- he goes to shoot at the range and he takes on a few stray missions that come his way, the ones he knows he can do in his sleep. After two weeks of slogging through early mornings and not resting enough at night, he’s on his way home from a run and ends up having to talk his way out of stopping at a bar. It’s mostly because he knows he has more than enough alcoholic vices at home, but also because a small voice in the back of his head -- the one that sounds like Natasha -- tells him that he should give himself at least a month before he becomes the cliche version of a grieving widow.

He almost wishes he _had_ stopped for a drink, though. Because then he would have an excuse as to why he jumped five feet in the air, cursed loudly, and dropped his keys on the ground when he closed the door of his apartment.

“You,” Bucky says, stepping out of the shadows, “are a piss poor spy. You also look like shit.”

“Says the man with the metal arm,” Clint replies, eyeing him warily. “You gonna make yourself comfortable, or stand there and judge me?”

Bucky looks at the floor then moves to the futon. Clint sighs and walks to the fridge, opening it with a grunt.

“How was the funeral?”

“Fine,” Clint says shortly, opening a beer bottle by banging it against the edge of his kitchen island. Bucky raises an eyebrow as the cap pops off, bouncing along the floor.

“Good eulogy?”

“I guess,” Clint says after a gulp of beer. “Why, you wanted to say something?”

“Nah. Little late for that. Plus, public goodbyes aren’t really my style.”

“What’s your style, then? Death by knife play?”

“You’ve been spending too much time with your spy movies,” Bucky informs Clint. He pulls at the sleeve of his shirt, which is hanging over loose sweatpants. The Winter Soldier looks like he just came from the gym, though Clint knows Bucky doesn’t really do gyms. There are enough hidden boltholes, underground practice areas, and places like Stark’s remote beach house that allow them to keep up training without being seen by the general public.

“If you’ve got something to say other than sit here and look smug --”

“Someone killed Ivan,” Bucky interrupts. “Ivan Petrovitch. You know him, right?”

Clint recognizes the name, of course he does. Anyone who knew anything about Natasha and her history knew about Ivan Petrovitch.

“So?”

“So, _Hawkeye_.” The look on Bucky’s face is very clearly _what are you not getting, idiot_? “You’ve read the reports. Ivan went into hiding years ago. We know the only person who could find him is Natasha. He trained her too well.”

Clint drinks more beer, finishing faster than he means to. He burps loudly as Bucky makes a face and then tosses the bottle into the trash with perfect aim.

“You think she’s not dead.”

“The Black Widow? Natasha Romanoff? Natalia Alianovna Romanova, the greatest student of the Red Room, the woman who is able to kill someone without lifting a damn pinky finger?” Bucky punctuates each word sharply. “No. I don’t think she’s dead.”

Clint frowns. “So you came here to tell me that?” he asks skeptically. “Two weeks after her funeral?” 

“Well, I only just got the reliable intel, so don’t blame me for coming to you late,” Bucky responds. “But yes, I came here to tell you that Natasha dies, and a few days after her funeral, someone tips me off that her former Red Room handler is suddenly dead.” He rolls his eyes. “Really?”

Clint sighs. “Look. I’m not saying I don’t believe you. Hell, it’s Natasha. But I know her, and if she _did_ fake her death, it means that for _whatever_ fucking reason, she obviously doesn’t want to be found.”

“ _Or_ it means she doesn’t want anyone to find her except for us,” Bucky counters. “To be honest, I’m surprised that her ex-boyfriend isn’t more gung-ho about the idea of finding his lost love.”

“You’re her ex too,” Clint informs him.

“And I’m here asking you to help me,” Bucky says, as if he’s trying to explain his reasoning to a child. “Because otherwise, you’d probably sit around and drink too much of this shitty beer you have.”

“That’s not --” Clint stops at Bucky’s look and sighs again. “Yeah, alright. Fine. But I would’ve come around eventually.”

“Eventually,” Bucky agrees, his lips turning up. Clint wants to ask him how the hell he can smile at a time like this -- Natasha just _died_ , he was at her funeral for chrissake -- but apparently Bucky suddenly seems pretty confident that Natasha’s not dead.

Except that Clint had heard the stories and he had seen the photos of Natasha’s death. It wasn’t that he doubted Natasha’s ability when it came to elaborate cover-ups, but Nazi Steve had pretty much shoved his shield into the side of her throat, and there was blood and her lifeless body, and --

Clint squeezes his eyes shut in an effort to stop the memories from playing out. If Bucky was right and if Natasha wasn’t really dead, he needed to stop thinking that she was.

“Hey,” Bucky says, his voice unusually quiet. “I wouldn’t come here if I wasn’t sure. I wouldn’t be that person. I know what you mean to her.”

 _Mean_. Clint opens his eyes and thinks of the last time he _really_ saw Natasha -- thinks of a storage closet in the middle of nowhere, love becoming desperate lust until they were both black and blue and gasping into each other’s skin in ecstasy -- and forces himself to speak.

“I know what you mean to her, too.”

Before Bucky leaves, he hands Clint a notepad and asks him to write down everything he knows about Natasha that could double as some sort of stealth clue.

Clint feels like he’s being unnecessarily patronized, but he writes things down anyway. One night when he can’t sleep, he fills three pages of the notebook back-to-back, cramming words like _apricot tea_ and _braids_ and _puffy jackets_ into the thin lines, until his vision starts to swim.

 

***

 

Clint pretends that he minds that Bucky starts coming over more after that, but the truth is he really doesn’t. It’s comforting, if only because Natasha would do the same thing: show up randomly, sneak in unannounced and make herself a sandwich or a drink, watch television while he slept or showered.

He tries to stop himself from thinking in the past tense, because maybe Bucky’s right. The coincidences of her involvement in Ivan’s death are there, but Clint’s been in this game for way too long. He’s learned to recognize when he’s being baited because someone knew he was vulnerable. Rash thinking and taking off on a hunch has bitten him in the ass more than once; he’s not going to let it bite him in the ass in a situation where his feelings could _really_ be hurt.

One morning, he wakes up later than usual and, when he stumbles into the kitchen, he finds Bucky sitting at the table. He’s shirtless, which is nothing new -- Clint’s shirtless himself -- but he’s hunched over a newspaper eating an apple, and something about the way he’s sitting makes Clint stop and take notice.

Bucky looks up and smiles, pointing to a pot of coffee. Clint nods in thanks, walks past him, and tries not to pay attention to the fact that he’s pretty sure Bucky’s smiling as he walks by. It definitely reminds him too much of Natasha, but at least he was used to Natasha trying to flirt with him. Clint hasn’t looked at guys since his circus days, and he’s not even sure if Bucky’s playing him like that or if he’s just acting like a smartass.

It continues like that for a full week -- Clint and Bucky moving around each other like roommates who are friends but also strangers. Sometimes, Clint will catch Bucky looking at him through waves of dark hair while he eats or reads, sometimes Clint will catch _himself_ looking at Bucky while he walks or sleeps, and sometimes Bucky’s random drop-ins sometimes cause awkward moments, like when Clint walks out of the bathroom stark naked thinking he’s alone only to find Bucky sitting on his floor, eating potato chips. 

Clint stops dead in his tracks, groping helplessly for a towel that isn’t there, as Bucky stares at him without blinking. It’s not so much that the nudity that bothers him – he did come from the circus, after all, and no one was very worried about keeping personal space there – it’s the fact that he’s not sure what this brand-new relationship is, the one where him and Bucky are suddenly spending time together but only because a woman they both like is maybe, possibly, potentially not dead.

Both of them stay still for far too long, even as goosebumps start to appear on Clint’s skin. Finally, Bucky speaks.

“Looking good, Barton.”

His eyes dart over Clint’s body and Clint clears his throat.

“I, uh. I didn’t think you swung that way.”

Bucky gives him a ghost of a grin. “I may be in my nineties, but I still have some good secrets.”

 

***

 

After two weeks of practically living together in a tiny apartment, Clint thinks he’s finally starting to get comfortable.

“I’m totally getting used to these wake-up calls,” Clint says when he opens the door to greet Bucky, who is holding out two coffees. Something about the way he’s standing and looking at Clint alerts him to the fact that he’s not just here to eat breakfast.

“I got something,” Bucky says, breezing past Clint and shoving a cup of coffee into his hands. Clint raises his eyebrows in curiosity, taking a sip of hot brew.

“Hit me.”

Bucky flops down on the futon and nods in Clint’s direction. “You got those notes you’ve been keeping?”

Clint nods, gesturing with his free hand to notebook sitting conveniently on the counter. “Yeah, of course.”

“Good.” Bucky leans over and puts his coffee on the floor. “I was hoping that we could use your stuff and my stuff against this potential clue I found. Where’s your computer?”

While Bucky makes himself comfortable, Clint manages to unearth his laptop from underneath some piles of week-old wrinkled laundry. Bucky takes it, balancing it on his knees, and starts typing furiously after Clint brings him his notebook.

“When did _you_ learn how to use computers so well?”

“Uh.” Bucky doesn’t look up. “Clearly you missed that training day at SHIELD.”

“Clearly,” Clint mutters, feeling a little useless at being relegated to “wait and see” in this whole situation.

“Okay,” Bucky says after a few moments. He waves a metal arm at Clint. “This was left at the scene of the crime. Recognize it?”

Clint moves until he’s standing next to Bucky and then squints, leaning forward for a better look at the grainy words in the photo that Bucky has enlarged.

“It’s French,” he says, recognizing the words _rogue echarpe_. “You don’t know French?”

Bucky sighs in exasperation. “Of course I know French, Barton. What I _don’t_ know is what else it means.”

Clint gives him another look. “And you’re sure this is not-dead-Natasha.”

“Sure as shit,” Bucky responds without skipping a beat. Clint frowns and looks at the word again, repeating it under his breath.

“It’s not familiar,” he says finally. “Maybe it’s supposed to be an anagram? And we’re supposed to figure out what those words actually are?”

“You really think Natasha would make the first clue _that_ hard?” Bucky asks.

“Yeah, actually. I do.” Clint looks at the word again and suddenly can’t stop himself from smiling. The smile turns into a laugh and soon, Bucky’s looking at him like he’s lost his mind.

“What the fuck is so funny, Barton?”

Clint tries and fails to stop laughing, and finally manages to sober up enough to talk. “French is the main language spoken in the Ivory Coast. We took a mission in Abidjan as Strike Team: Delta.”

“And so this means something to you?”

Clint snorts, thinking of broken beds and Natasha’s cunning grin. “You could say that.”

Bucky stares at Clint as if he can see the image playing out in Clint’s mind. “That’s...interesting.”

“Interesting? Come on. Spies do kinky shit all the time, even you know that.”

“I’m not interested in the details of your sex life, trust me,” Bucky replies. “I’m interested in why she would leave _that_ particular clue, aside from reminding you of what I assume was a good time.”

“Really?” Clint asks dubiously. “ _You_ were the one who was willing to consider whatever dumb connection you could think of in order to prove Natasha was alive. I’m not saying she’s in Abidjan, or even France. But you asked if it means something to me, and that’s what I know. So maybe we should use it to figure out where to go next.”

Where to go next involves a couple of beers and Clint running scans and coordinates through a tracking system on his computer. Since there’s no other way for Bucky to help, he’s the one who ends up twiddling his thumbs and ends up spreading out on the floor. Clint resists the urge to grumble about laziness under his breath.

“You’d think this wouldn’t be so hard for a couple of spies,” Clint grouses.

“Speak for yourself,” Bucky replies. “You’re a spy. _I’m_ an assassin.”

“Fine, then call me a marksman and tell me again why we’re sitting here trying to chase what seems like a dead end,” Clint snaps. He’s aware that he sounds cranky and whiny so he cuts himself off before he says anything else. Bucky didn’t seem to be losing any sleep over the fact that Natasha was leaving them clues like this was a damn scavenger hunt, so Clint should probably tone it down.

“Do you think she’d be rolling her eyes at us if she knew what we were doing?” Clint asks instead of continuing to complain. “Her ex-boyfriends sitting here together, drinking beer and trying to figure out where the hell she’s gone?”

Bucky smiles. “Probably,” he agrees. “But maybe not. Maybe she just likes fucking with us.”

“Ha.” Clint snorts. “Yeah, well. I know she likes _fucking_ us, at least.”

Bucky doesn’t answer but he continues to smile, as if something Clint’s said has amused him more than he wants to let on.

“Hey.” Clint leans forward, his forehead folding into creases. “When did you find out about Ivan’s death?”

“I told you -- two days after her funeral. Why?”

“Because,” Clint says, his voice turning grim. “This is _definitely_ too much of a coincidence.”

Bucky abandons the beer he’s been nursing and moves so that he can look at where Clint’s pointing on the screen. It’s a news alert that scrolls across the top of the CNN page, pointing to the death of a known Russian assassin. Bucky swears under his breath.

“What happened?”

“Gimme a moment to work my magic,” Clint mutters as he clicks the link. When he looks up again, his face is just as confused. “Someone named Niko Constantin. The article says he was found by the North River Terminal in Moscow.”

Bucky’s mouth sets itself in a straight line. Clint notices his eyes have gone dark, indicating that the name means something more to him than a simple memory.

“She’s definitely trying to tell us something.”

“Yeah,” Clint agrees dryly. “Here lies Natasha Romanoff, she who sent her two lovers on a wild goose chase.”

Bucky turns to Clint sharply. “Do you happen to remember the details of that mission in Abidjan, aside from the fact that you guys apparently filmed a sex tape involving a red scarf?”

“There wasn’t a sex tape,” Clint retorts. “And yeah, we were sent over by SHIELD to detain this guy from Moscow. Didn’t go so well; we ended up in a shoot-out and had to call in for extraction.”

Bucky starts pacing around Clint’s apartment. Clint eyes Bucky warily as he picks up his beer, finishing it off before putting it down near the sink on one of his many laps.

“Bucky?”

“Natasha said to me on a mission once -- before she defected to SHIELD -- _the only person someone can’t find is the one who is most predictable_. No one except you would know anything about that stupid Abidjan clue, right? But that other guy who was killed, he was found at a Moscow dock. And when you guys were on that mission, you had to deal with a Muscovite.” Bucky stops pacing and looks at Clint. Clint can almost see the pieces slotting together in Bucky’s brain at the same time that they slot together in his.

“Moscow.”

“Moscow,” Bucky repeats.

Clint sighs. “Well.” He gestures to the apartment. “I guess you should pack a bag and spend the night, then.”

“You saying that because you want me to spend the night, or because you’re too tired to kick me out?” Bucky asks, a grin tugging at the side of his mouth. Clint hesitates, because when it comes down to it, he’s not sure.

“Asshole,” he decides, throwing a piece of paper in Bucky’s direction and trying not to stare when Bucky leans over to pick it up, too-big jeans sagging slightly around his hips.

 

***

 

Natasha wouldn’t have picked Russia of all places for her final destination. But she did have to admit that it made for a nice full circle story.

Russia was where she had been born. The United States was where she had been reborn. Even if she didn’t know where she wanted to end up, she _did_ know that she wanted to kill Ivan. It wasn’t hard. She’d been tracking him for years without anyone knowing, and he wasn’t as elusive as he had been in the past. When she finally kicked down the door of his hiding place, an old and abandoned cabin in the middle of the Appalachians, he simply stared at her in slight surprise and nodded, even as she held a pistol to his head, her finger poised on the trigger.

“I am old, Natalia. It is not worth it for me, anymore.”

He still put up a fight, though -- one that left her bleeding and bruised, with her arm in a homemade sling and one cracked rib. But the days of Ivan being her match and then some were clearly over, and it wasn’t hard to make the kill shot. It even felt good.

Niko Constantin, on the other hand, was a different story. He had been the only male trainee of the Red Room, what history called the “Wolf Soldier.” Barnes ran that program and Niko -- a decent and effective killer, but lacking the discipline and temperament needed to achieve Winter Soldier status -- held a considerable grudge against the assassin once he started rising in the ranks.

She knew it would be a bad idea to travel to Russia still injured, so she gave herself close to a week of semi-recovery, taking up residence in an abandoned house a few hours away from where Ivan was staying. She left a clue for Clint and decided to write it in French -- they had gone to the Ivory Coast on a Strike Team: Delta mission some years ago; Natasha remembers it fondly for its food and also for its very nice hotel room bed, whose bed frame they broke from too much sex -- and as she wrote it out, she found herself smiling at the fact she was using a memory about their sex life to send him on wild goose chases across the ocean.

When she arrived in Russia, having sniffed out where Niko was hiding, it was a more brutal than her confrontation with Ivan. Niko wasn’t old and Niko was still strong; she knew he wasn’t ready to go down without a fight and Natasha was willing to give him one. In the end, he only managed to give her one concussion, a new collection of bruises, and a sprained ankle to replace her sprained wrist.

She left his body under a bridge near a dock in Moscow, and where to go to next stalled her uncharacteristically. She needed a home base, somewhere to lie low and heal. Almost all of her boltholes in Moscow ran the risk of being too obvious but she donned a wig, put on her best accent, and casually chatted up a woman renting some rooms in run-down buildings in the Ukrainian Quarter.

She didn’t know how long it would take for anyone to find her, if they even cared to find her. But at least she’d bought herself a decent amount of time to deal with her feelings without having to answer to anyone.

 

***

 

Three days ago, the last thing Clint expected to be doing was traveling with Bucky Barnes -- to another country, no less. But here they are: in Russia.

“You knew that guy,” Clint says as they get off a train in central Moscow. “The other guy she killed.”

“Yes,” Bucky acknowledges gruffly.

Clint nods. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Bucky’s tone changes to noncommittal. “He hated me and I hated him. He was an old student.”

Clint turns in surprise, hitching his duffel bag and his quiver higher over his shoulder. “Aside from you, I didn’t think the Red Room trained men.”

“He was the only male trainee that I know of,” Bucky offers. “He was an effective killer, but he was too volatile. He couldn’t handle missions well, so I didn’t send him out as much as I would send out other trainees. When he realized how I was treating him, he resented me for it. Dealing with him was...trying, to say the least.”

Clint listens to Bucky and realizes he can easily see the man who snapped necks without a second thought, who killed without asking someone’s name, the man who Natasha probably fell in love with for his strength and stoicism. And it’s not like _he_ hasn’t committed any terrible acts of violence in his life, because that’s what being an Avenger is: sometimes having to make morally grey decisions. The difference is, Clint’s never been _Bucky’s_ kind of killer -- the kind who murdered ruthlessly and didn’t care about the consequences. So why does he actually find that sense of brutality and danger more than a little attractive?

“Earth to Barton,” and Bucky’s voice makes Clint realize he’s been staring at him without speaking. “You got something you want to say?”

 _Probably_ , Clint thinks, tearing his eyes away from Bucky’s mouth. He shakes his head in an attempt to clear it, and realizes that Bucky’s hand is dangerously close to his lips.

“You’ve got sweat all over your face,” Bucky says, brushing his thumb against Clint’s cheek. “No wonder Natasha always had to take care of you.”

“Thanks,” Clint grumbles. “Maybe I _like_ people taking care of me, okay?”

“Hey, I don’t mind it either,” Bucky replies. “Steve took care of me a lot even though I was supposed to be the one taking care of him.”

“Yeah,” Clint muses. “About that – you and Steve.” 

Bucky raises an eyebrow. “What _about_ me and Steve?”

“I dunno,” Clint hedges. “I mean, when you said you took care of him --”

“I _tried_ to take care of him,” Bucky interrupts. “Even before he was beefy ol’ Cap, he would try to act like he didn’t need me, or he would go and do things where I had to intervene just so he didn’t end up dead. I love that little shit, but man, back then, I wanted to kill him sometimes.”

“Yeah,” Clint repeats, ignoring Bucky’s casual drop of the word “love” and chalking it up to gruff soldier talk. “You know, in the circus, I shared a room with a guy after my brother left. Felt like I had to protect him too, since he was the new guy and all. He’d never worked in the circus before.”

“Ain’t that the truth for most carnies?” Bucky asks, giving Clint a sideways glance.

“Not necessarily,” Clint replies, kicking a stone out of his path. “Some people want to be there. They want to be the center of attention and they’re looking for some sort of family. He just kind of fell into it and didn’t really know what he was doing for awhile.”

Bucky throws Clint a small smile. “No wonder Natasha picked you.”

Clint stops in his tracks. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Bucky shrugs. “I mean, it sounds like you went with the flow. Made it easy to control you, probably. But it also made it easier for you to connect. Nat and I...we had a harder time connecting.”

“Even though you grew up together?”

Bucky makes a face. “I don’t know if you’d call being trained as killers ‘growing up together,’ but yes. We both were raised to distrust other people, no matter who they were. And that included people we were close to.”

“I guess.” Clint inclines his head in thought. “You slept with her too, though.”

“I did,” Bucky answers. “And I love her. Isn’t that why we’re both here? Regardless of what our relationships were like?”

Clint nods. “Yeah,” he says, following Bucky as he takes the lead, staring up at the abnormally bright sky.

 

***

 

Clint suggests that they hit the ground running, starting with any suspicious activity that felt like it could mean “Natasha.”

Bucky, on the other hand, suggests that they park themselves in a cafe in the Red Square.

“This feels stupid,” Clint complains after the waitress delivers another cup of coffee. “We’re just sitting here like ducks. She could be anywhere.”

“We’re just sitting here like ducks because we don’t know where else to go right now,” Bucky corrects.

“Yeah, but we’re also planting ourselves in what is arguably the most popular public space in the whole city,” Clint points out. “I mean, don’t get me wrong. St. Basil’s Cathedral is fucking gorgeous to stare at when you’re not shooting from it, but we’re not doing anything productive.”

“Like I said, sometimes you have to just _sit_ ,” Bucky responds levelly. “You’re a spy, Barton, you should know this.”

Clint knows this -- of course he does -- but it doesn’t make him feel any better about the situation. He feels twitchy, uncertain, like he’s wasting time while Bucky seems unconcerned that something bigger is at stake. Clint can’t help but think that he’s the one who knows Natasha better, but at the same time, he knows how silly that line of reasoning is; him and Bucky were simply different people with different ways of approaching situations. Clint takes comfort in the fact that at least they both have one thing in common: they both care about Natasha.

“At least we both care about Natasha,” he says out loud, causing Bucky to look up from his drink with a smile.

“We do,” he agrees, looking around. Clint follows his lead but doesn’t see anything that looks out of the ordinary. He tries zeroing in on people who seem to walk differently, faster or slower, or groups who move more steadily than others, but nothing sticks out to him.

Bucky’s hand suddenly slaps the table, and Clint jumps about five feet in the air.

“Did you see that?”

“See what?”

Bucky points to a piece of red fabric on the table, which Clint knows definitely wasn’t there before.

“Son of a bitch,” he spits out, immediately shooting up as if he’s been shot. He grabs his bag and quiver from where it’s been leaning against an extra chair.

“Clint -- hey.” Bucky’s hand is faster than Clint’s archer reflexes are, which is almost impressive. He catches Clint’s arm, metal fingers wrapping swiftly around his bicep.

“Are you insane?” Clint exclaims, trying to wrench away. “You know that was Nat! She was _right_ here and we both missed her!”

“It _could_ have been Nat,” Bucky agrees. “But we can’t just rush off because of one clue. We don’t even know where we’re going!”

Clint stares at Bucky, his face hardening, feeling his patience finally run out.

“ _You_ don’t even know where you’re going.”

With another twist, he breaks free from Bucky’s iron grip, pushing through the people standing on the sidewalk and stumbling into pedestrian traffic. He keeps his eyes on what he thinks might be Natasha’s hair or Natasha’s back and eventually stops paying attention to where he’s going. When he stops to catch his breath, he finds himself on a stretch of road where the streets are curved and steep, lined by rows of embassies and what look like run-down government buildings. Turning slowly, he walks left, continuing away from the populated area. In the lag, his mind finally catches up to him, and he realizes he’s left Bucky in the dust without even a hint of direction. Before he can feel too bad, he hears familiar footsteps behind him.

“Are you insane?” Bucky sounds barely out of breath, despite the fact Clint knows he must have taken off at the same speed. “Running off like that, causing commotion in the middle of a crowded area? You are _literally_ the worst spy ever.”

Clint doesn’t respond as he continues walking away from the embassy area, instead looking around at the ornately decorated buildings that are cushioned between small hostels and what look like they could be residential buildings. Maybe part of him _had_ acted like a lovesick teenager desperate enough to pin all his hope on one glimpse of what was likely a ghost. On the other hand...

“Nat’s here.”

Bucky heaves out a sigh. “Christ, Barton. At this point, you’d jump off a cliff, you’re so sure.”

“I _am_ sure,” Clint repeats, looking Bucky in the eye. “Call me a bad spy. Call me impulsive. Whatever, Barnes. I don’t care. She’s _here_. That was her who gave us that clue, I _know_ it was. I tracked her, I followed her. I _know_ her.”

“So do I,” Bucky says. “How the hell do you think I found you after you took off like that? Because I sure as shit don’t know anything about you or how your brain works.”

Clint realizes Bucky has a point. “So you think she’s here, too.”

“Well, we ended up in the same place,” Bucky observes. “Right?”

“Right,” Clint agrees. “Except out of all the places, I didn’t think Nat would pick the Ukrainian Quarter.”

“What, you expected some shithole in Siberia?” Bucky smiles wryly. “Sometimes when you don’t want to be found, the best thing you can do is hide in plain sight.”

“I guess.” Clint looks around. “In that case, you got any idea where she might be hiding?”

Bucky purses his lips, letting his eyes scan the landscape. “Seems to me like if you’re set on her being here, there are really only two buildings that could pass as possible accommodations,” he says, pointing in the distance. Both buildings Bucky is referencing look rather plain and Clint squints for a long time, until he finally feels satisfied with his choice.

“That one,” he decides, setting his sights on the farther building. “It’s almost identical to the style of the safehouse we had in Budapest. Plain sight, remember?”

Bucky settles into step beside Clint until they’re standing in front of a small three-story building with a fire escape snaking up its side. Clint looks at Bucky and then fixes his bag before swinging onto the lowest level of the fire escape.

“Hey.”

Bucky has swung up next to him and looks at him with a raised brow. “What, you second-guessing yourself or something?”

Clint shakes his head. “No. It’s just...I mean, Nat faked her death. And she did it well, and she did it for a reason. The clues, the tracking -- I know she left us breadcrumbs, but do you think she actually _wants_ to be found? After all of this?”

Bucky starts walking up the rickety stairs. “I guess we’ll find out.”

When Bucky gets to the top floor of the building, he forces the window open with his metal arm. “Nat always liked heights,” Bucky says as he climbs through the rotted wooden frame. Clint suppresses his own smile.

“I know,” he says as he follows him down the hall. “It’s part of why I liked her. She never made fun of me for seeing from a distance.” The doors on all the apartment buildings are as non-descript as the building itself, marked only with faded numbers, but Clint stops right in front of 42.

“Never pegged Nat for a nerd,” Bucky mutters, and Clint gives him a confused look.

“Huh?”

“42. The meaning of life, the universe and everything. Really, Barton, have you never read _Hitchhiker's Guide To The Galaxy_?”

“Wasn’t on my reading list,” Clint answers. “And by the way, 42 is April 2nd, the first time we went into the field together as partners. Doesn’t it mean anything to _you_?”

Bucky’s silent for a long time. “The number of people I killed on my first mission in the Red Room.”

“Well, that’s poetic,” Clint mutters, raising his fist. Bucky cuts him off by throwing his weight against the door instead. It opens easily and they both stumble into the room one after another. Clint blinks at the sight in front of him: Natasha Romanoff, alive and whole with bright blonde hair, dressed in sweats and standing in front of a stove, in the process of making tea.

Natasha smiles, but there’s a look that Clint instantly recognizes as guarded and he’s not sure what that means.

“Hello, boys.”

 

***

 

Natasha heard their voices before she saw their faces.

She had paused in the middle of making her daily tea, wondering whether or not to run. After all, that had been her purpose in faking her death in the first place -- to run. But when she’d seen Bucky and Clint on the street, she knew it was only a matter of time before they tracked her, so she’d sped up the timeline herself.

“Nat, what --”

“-- we thought you were _dead_ \--”

“What the hell did you do? I went to your funeral and everything!”

She doesn’t even flinch when Bucky and Clint burst through her door, staying quiet through the outbursts and steeping her tea. “I see you made it,” she says finally when they stop talking long enough for her to get a word in. Clint simply stares at her, his eyes narrowed.

“No thanks to _those_ clues.”

Natasha instantly feels a twinge of regret. All of this would have him hit the hardest, and she’s not dumb enough to forget that. Even if Bucky had believed her death, Clint would take her actions ten times more personally -- if nothing else because he would assume that she did it because she couldn’t trust him.

“Well, what does it matter? You found me.”

“Because you wanted to be found,” Clint says. He moves to the center of the small room, while Bucky remains near the door.

Natasha nods. “Maybe.”

“Cut the bullshit, Nat.” Clint drops his bag with a loud thud and Natasha fights to keep her face neutral despite the fact that she can see every stab of pain he’s trying to hide. “We flew to goddamn Russia and ran all over Moscow like a couple of assholes!”

“One asshole,” Bucky says, speaking up. “One asshole ran all over the city. _I_ was willing to wait until you showed up.”

Clint glares at him and Natasha stays silent while she picks up her tea.

“For god’s sake, Nat.” Now it’s Bucky who sounds annoyed. “Can you at least _say_ something?”

Natasha takes a sip of tea. “I think there’s more room here than a storage closet,” she says finally, staring at Clint who chokes on air while Bucky simply looks confused.

“Classic Natasha,” Bucky says, a grin shadowing his face as he starts to understand the implications of her words. “Making jokes to cover up the fact that you’re emotionally compromised.”

“Welcome to Russia,” Natasha deadpans, not acknowledging the truth of his assessment. “Have a drink, stay awhile, and tell me all about how Steve Rogers is saving the world again now that he’s not Hydra.”

She watches Bucky and Clint exchange glances before Clint sighs loudly, threading fingers through his short hair.

“We want answers, Nat. If you don’t want to tell us now, fine. But you’re going to have to tell us at some point soon.”

Natasha tries to smile as she drinks again, the scalding liquid burning her insides. “I know.”

The three of them lapse into silence, and then Clint laughs quietly under his breath as he turns his back.

“Yeah, I’m sure you do.”

Natasha winces as the door slams. For a moment, she considers going after him, even though she knows that’s the worst thing she can do right now. Still, the thought of him stomping around the neighborhood, hurt and angry, makes her ache.

“That went well,” she says, sitting down on the couch.

“Did you really expect it to?” Bucky asks, joining her. “The guy was going crazy thinking you were dead and he didn’t even believe me when I brought him one clue. Now he finally gets here after running himself ragged and you basically act like it’s no big deal that you’re alive.”

“It’s not a big deal,” Natasha lies, putting her tea on the tiny table in front of her. “And like I said, you’re both here now, so why does it matter?”

“It matters because you did a shitty thing,” Bucky informs her. Natasha dips her head, unable to curb her smile, because that was James, alright -- blunt, to the point, never shying away from telling her when she did a terrible job killing someone or made a mistake that was emotionally stupid.

“I know I did.” She raises her eyes and looks at him. “There’s a reason. I promise. I just --”

“You can’t talk about it and you’re not ready, I know,” Bucky finishes. He leans back on the couch. “You killed Niko.”

“I did.”

“To draw me out further and make sure I knew about it? Or because you thought he deserved to die?”

Natasha takes a long breath. “You’re not mad, are you?”

“Mad?” Bucky snorts. “Are you kidding? I hated him.”

“And you weren’t the only person who had to deal with him when he did things to people you cared about. He was my past as much as he was yours, James.”

Bucky’s face changes when Natasha uses his name, she sees it in his eyes and in the way his mouth moves, and _goddamn_ she’s missed him.

“For what it’s worth, it’s good to see you, Natalia.”

Natasha swallows and cups his unshaven chin in one hand. “It’s good to see you too, James.”

 

***

 

Clint walks just far enough along the winding roads to get away from the building and the source of his anger, but not far enough so that he’s back in the Red Square and the throngs of people he’d run from. Every emotion coursing through him grows stronger, especially the more he thinks about Natasha -- seeing her face, hearing her response, her stupid blonde hair...

He should’ve expected it. He practically _did_ expect it. _Classic Natasha_ , Bucky had called it, and it was true. Even though he had wanted to scream at her for bringing up their last meaningful encounter like a joke, he knew it was because she didn’t want to talk about how she was really feeling. Which, for the life of him, he can’t figure out. Natasha had run for a reason and he hates that he has no idea what that reason is.

He finally comes to the realization that he doesn’t know where the hell to go aside from wandering in circles, so he gives up and walks back towards where Natasha is staying. He pauses outside, not quite ready to go back upstairs, and instead sits down on what could almost pass for a stoop.

“Is this seat taken?”

It’s been about fifteen minutes or so and he blinks a few times after he looks up, because he’s still not used to the bright blonde. Natasha sits down and Clint can tell she’s being more careful with her movements than normal.

“Still healing,” she admits as she adjusts herself. Clint nods again, not really sure what to say. Natasha seems to sense the awkwardness and clears her throat.

“I know the blonde is different, but I needed to make sure I covered my tracks. I’ll dye it back, I promise.”

Clint swallows. “Doesn’t look too bad,” he lies. “Just not used to it.” He cranes his neck. “Is Bucky still inside?”

“Yes,” Natasha answers.

Clint smiles wryly. “So I’m the only one who’s stomping around acting like an angry child?”

Natasha puts her chin in her hands. “I know you’re angry. You have every right to be.”

“Damn straight I have every right to be,” Clint spits out. “The world was ending and we were all fighting to save it, and you thought that was a good time to just check the hell out?”

“Well, it’s not like I knew Steve was going to shove that shield in my neck,” Natasha counters. “Are you saying I shouldn’t have fought when I knew the person who was going to destroy our entire universe was evil as all hell?”

“But you set yourself up for it anyway,” Clint argues. “You _knew_ you were entering a situation where you might get hurt badly.”

“And how is that any different than what _you_ did, Clint?” Natasha’s eyes are suddenly hard. “You killed Bruce. You _knew_ that it would put you in the public eye, and you knew what it meant for your reputation. Your arguments make no sense.”

“Neither do yours,” says Clint, even though he knows she’s right. “But what I did, I did it because I was asked to...because I’d made a promise to a friend. And I went to trial, yeah. It sucked and I hated it and I had some bad nights afterwards but at least I faced the world and dealt with my issues. I made a choice.”

“And so did I,” Natasha says. “So you can’t let that go?”

“No, because your choice involved peacing out from society.” Clint pauses and Natasha remains silent, which only frustrates him more. “Just...just tell me why you did it, Nat. What the hell made you run off like a child and ignore whatever you apparently couldn’t face?”

Natasha puts her hands together in a steeple and presses her pointer fingers to her lips. “I’ve always been tied to someone, or something. I’ve always made decisions that I thought were based on the best parts of me. But --”

“But?” Clint asks, unable to help himself from interrupting.

“But, it’s exhausting,” Natasha continues. “Trying to figure out who you’re supposed to be. Every inch of you, every part of you remade into something else or something new, and then you start picking out the parts of you that you want or that you think might be real...and there are things there that are confusing and that you don’t know how to face. How do you cope with that?”

“Last I heard, you didn’t fake your death,” Clint replies bitterly. “I mean, what happened to us, Nat? What happened to _you_? You felt so trapped that you needed this much of a way out?”

Natasha doesn’t answer, looking down at the ground. “It’s hard to explain,” she says finally. “I know I hurt you. I hurt Ja -- I hurt Bucky, too.”

“Yeah, but you didn’t make out with him in a storage closet and then run off and die.”

“What, are you saying we should change our M.O.?” Natasha asks.

Clint can’t help but laugh. “I don’t know. _Should_ we, mademoiselle?”

Natasha smiles. “I thought you’d like that memory,” she says, shifting gingerly until she’s settled into his side. He puts his arm around her, relishing in the solid warmth of her body.

“It was one of our better exploits,” Clint agrees. He wonders if this is territory he shouldn’t quite access yet, given that Natasha really isn’t supposed to be with him or Bucky right now. But he quickly shrugs the thought off. If she didn’t want to touch Clint intimately, she wouldn’t be.

“I’m glad you found me,” Natasha says after a moment of silence.

Clint holds her a little closer.

 

***

 

To everyone’s surprise, Natasha actually has a decent amount of food in her apartment, and it’s while the three of them eat together on the couch that Clint realizes they haven’t figured out their sleeping arrangements. If it was just him and Natasha, he would climb into bed with her; if it was him and Bucky he would have offered Bucky his pick of the couch or the bed. Three people in a space with minimal sleeping accommodations, however, presents a bit of a problem.

“You can have my bed tonight,” announces Natasha after they finish eating and have all downed a shot of vodka poured by Bucky “in celebration of Natasha fucking Romanoff and her undeadness.”

“I don’t think it’s fair to make Bucky sleep on the floor,” Clint says.

Natasha shakes her head. “I meant you can both have the bed. I’ll sleep on the couch. It’s not a big deal.”

“Um.” Clint finds himself glad they’ve finished eating, because his stomach flips in a perfectly nauseating way. “That’s not --”

“Oh, come on,” Natasha interjects. “You can’t tell me you’ve never slept with another guy before; you’re both Avengers. Since you traveled all the way here, I figured you could use a good night’s sleep.”

Clint glances at Bucky, who shrugs.

“Don’t look at me,” Bucky says. “ _You’re_ the one who didn’t believe she was alive. We could be in the house of a ghost right now.”

“This ghost would put a fist through your face if you tried to walk through her,” Natasha pipes up. Bucky laughs.

“Point taken. I’d hate to repeat the first year of Red Room training.”

“Oh, please. You put that fist right back in my face and Yelena never let you forget it.”

Clint listens to them banter, part of him wishing he could join in, but the larger part of him is still pissed that Natasha doesn’t understand how shitty it was for her to run away like this.

“I think I want to scope out the area before we go to sleep,” he announces, grabbing his coat from where it’s lying on the floor. Natasha and Bucky look up in surprise, another conversation or memory interrupted.

“Okay,” Natasha says. “Want the key, just in case?”

Clint follows where she’s pointing and finds a spare key on top of the refrigerator, the same place where she used to keep her key to his place in Brooklyn. The moment he’s outside the apartment he feels better and he heaves out a long breath before walking down the stairs and out the door.

“Hey.”

He’s barely five feet down the block when Bucky’s voice stops him. Clint turns around, annoyed.

“Did you come to babysit me?”

“No,” Bucky says, his eyes scanning Clint’s body. “I came to ask if you were okay. You just busted out of there.”

“I said I was going to take a look around because I’m unfamiliar with this area and I like to check my surroundings,” Clint says bitingly. “Why do you care?”

“Because three hours ago, you wanted to blow up the world to find Natasha and now you’re acting like you don’t want to be around her.” Bucky crosses his arms. “What changed?”

Clint shakes his head. “Forget it,” he says shortly. “I just needed some air.” He turns away again and Bucky clears his throat.

“If it’s me, I can leave.”

Clint spins around and fixes his gaze on Bucky’s face. Maybe it’s the vodka, but for the first time, he feels like he’s seeing him the way Natasha probably does -- a little cocky, a little endearing, and a little attractive.

“It’s not you,” Clint admits. “I don’t know what it is. It’s...it’s all of this. Natasha’s alive and I still love her, and maybe you do too, and --”

“What, you know I love her so you feel like you can’t?” Bucky smiles. “Have you ever known Natasha Romanoff to have not loved more than one person at the same time?”

Clint rubs his eyes. “We were never exclusive and I know that, but it doesn’t mean I don’t care about her.”

“So it’s a problem that I do, too?”

“No,” Clint says, feeling defeated and confused, the weight of the whole day crashing down on him like a cascade of boulders. “I don’t know. Maybe I do just need to sleep.”

“Maybe.” Bucky winks. “According to Natasha, there’s half of a bed with your name on it.”

Clint swallows. “Guess you’re stuck with me then, unless you want the floor.”

“Trust me.” Bucky puts a hand on Clint’s shoulder and squeezes it lightly. “There are worse people I’ve slept next to.”

 

***

 

When Bucky leaves to go after Clint, Natasha’s relieved to have the apartment back to herself for a little bit.

After she had arrived in Russia, she’d started keeping a notebook with pages she divided into two columns: Natasha Romanoff and Natalia Romanova. Some things fit in both, like her hair and her favorite food and her nervous ticks. Others -- like Clint and Bucky -- were different. Which is why Natasha’s so surprised that having both of them in her company hasn’t been as bad as she expected. Granted, it had been less than a day and it was easier dealing with them one-on-one; talking and relaxing with Clint the way they would after a long week of being out in the field, bantering with Bucky about their past the way she would if they were alone in bed. She grabs the bottle of vodka she’d previously capped and goes to sit on the fire escape.

Despite keeping a lower profile than usual, she’d read the papers and she’d kept up with the news. Steve had returned to goodness and patriotic valor, the Nazi version of him destroyed, though most of the world was still feeling the effects of his rule. She takes a swig of vodka and as she puts the bottle down, something soft brushes against her leg.

“Oh, Liho,” Natasha says quietly, bending over to pick up the sleek black cat. “I was wondering when you’d come back.”

“So you replaced us with a cat, huh?”

Natasha doesn’t turn around, putting her hand on the Liho’s back. “Cats don’t run out on me when their feelings get hurt.”

She hears Bucky snort. “Cats also don’t pretend to die because their feelings get hurt.”

“Of course they don’t,” Natasha replies in a practical tone. “They have nine lives.”

“Just like Natasha Romanoff, right?”

“Exactly like Natasha Romanoff.” She finally shifts, keeping the cat in her lap, and looks at Clint and Bucky. “Don’t worry. The cat sleeps with me for now. You won’t even see her in the morning. She usually goes out for food and stays out most of the day. She only comes to visit when she knows I need her.”

“Yeah,” Bucky says with a crooked smile. “You’re right. _Exactly_ like Natasha Romanoff.”

 

***

 

While Bucky takes a shower, Natasha cleans up the kitchen. Clint sits at the table, gnawing on an apple, watching her in silence.

“The blonde really throws me, you know.”

“Like you’ve never seen me without red hair,” Natasha replies, putting down a ratty towel.

“Not about that,” Clint insists. “It’s just that you just look so different. You remind me of --”

“Yelena,” Natasha supplies. “I know. Bucky said the same thing.”

Clint looks down at the floor, pausing to collect his words. “I just don’t know why you would want to make yourself look like someone who you always told me you hated,” he says.

Natasha flinches subtly. “I knew I needed to change my appearance. Blonde was just something I hadn’t been in awhile. It had nothing to do with thinking of someone I didn’t want to be.” She leans back against the sink. “Do you really hate it that much?”

“I don’t --” Clint stops because even as he’s talking, he hears what Natasha is really asking underneath her simple question.

“I’m sorry,” he apologizes, wanting nothing more than to kiss her and hold her the way they always did when they were feeling vulnerable. “I just...I can’t do this when I’m still mad at you. And I’m still mad at you. Because I don’t understand why you did what you did.”

“That’s fair,” Natasha says quietly. “I didn’t exactly expect you to come here and make out with me.”

“What _did_ you expect?” Clint asks curiously.

Natasha shrugs. “I think I thought that by pretending to die and running away, I would be able to have better control over what I was feeling,” she says slowly. “It’s why I killed the people from my past -- so I could make a fresh start. But maybe I was wrong.”

There’s so much that’s not being said, but Clint doesn’t think it’s the right time to push her. They’ve already talked about enough heavy things for one day.

That night, Natasha takes the couch as she’s said she would and Clint finds himself alone with Bucky in a bedroom so small, it reminds him of his days in a trailer park.

“She’s made a good place here,” Clint muses as he climbs into what’s actually a decent sized bed. There’s not much to go on, but Natasha’s made the space her own in the only way she could, by placing a few potted plants on the windowsill and draping some colored curtains around the musty windows. Clint doesn’t expect anything more or anything less; Natasha’s version of “settled” was about the same as Clint’s has always been: little fanfare and little frill. The only reason his apartment feels like a home at all is because he’d ended up buying the building a few years ago.

He’s stripped down to his boxers, forgoing his shirt. Bucky, who has stripped down to boxers and a white tank top that’s a little too tight for his muscled body, climbs into bed beside him.

“I’d say today ended up about as well as could be expected.”

“For finding the world’s best undead assassin slash former girlfriend?” Clint asks, closing his eyes. “I agree.”

Bucky doesn’t answer and Clint assumes he’s on his way to falling asleep. In the silence, he suddenly becomes very aware of Bucky’s light breathing.

“What do we do now that we’re here?” Clint wonders out loud.

Bucky sighs next to him. “We figure our shit out, Barton. With her.”

It’s a simple enough response, something that Natasha would probably say, but it’s not exactly the answer he’s looking for. He opens his eyes and is startled to see Bucky smiling at him.

“Um.” Clint swallows. “You _did_ mention that you swung that way, right?”

“Yes,” Bucky says almost too calmly, before he leans over and kisses Clint.

It’s a small peck -- nothing that could be considered groundbreaking by kissing standards -- but it still leaves Clint’s breath in his throat. 

“Well, goodnight,” Bucky says after he pulls back. He turns over and Clint is left staring at his back, the way his spine pushes against his thin shirt. Clint feels like he should say something, but he’s not exactly sure what to say.

“Hey, um.”

Bucky shifts and turns over again. “Yeah?”

“I just, uh…” Clint’s suddenly worried that even with the covers, Bucky can see what he feels: a small erection starting to form under the thin sheets.

“Circus,” he says finally, as if trying to offer up an excuse for why he may be turned on. 

“Not picky,” Bucky responds easily before he rolls over again. “Have you _seen_ Steve?”

 

***

 

The next day, Bucky is up and out of bed well before Clint is, even though Clint usually doesn’t sleep well enough to pass out in strange places. He can hear Bucky talking in the kitchen, and decides to stay in bed a little longer. For once, he doesn’t feel confused or jealous that he’s not with Natasha in this moment.

Instead he feels...something else.

It’s been a long time since Clint has thought about being with a guy, or even looked at a guy. Far from him not being interested, the life of avenging just didn’t lend itself to quickies or attraction. Nat and him had a history, the same way Steve had a history with Bucky, and that made it easy to connect -- the attraction, sex, and openness came second in Clint’s opinion, but he realizes he’s never really thought about it.

But he _has_ to think about it with Bucky. Because Bucky wasn’t Natasha. Bucky wasn’t even Bobbi. Bucky was someone different, and he has no idea if this is something he should pursue, or if he’s even reading the signs right -- lord knows he’s read them wrong before.

“Oh.” The door opens and Bucky walks in, half-dressed, his long hair stringy at the ends where it’s clearly not combed. He closes the door behind him and starts rummaging around in his bag, his metal arm gleaming as it collects spots of sunlight from the window and reflects them onto the wall. “You’re up.”

“Yeah,” Clint says. “Guess I slept in.”

“Nah, I wake up early.”

Clint notices that Bucky hasn’t bothered to shave. He rubs his own chin, noting the small amount of stubble growing in, which is nothing compared to Bucky’s almost-full beard.

Bucky continues to root through his pack and Clint gives him time to see if he’s going to say anything about last night. When he doesn’t, he decides to bite the bullet himself. After all, he could take things the wrong way all he wanted, but Bucky’s lips were definitely touching his own and Clint _definitely_ didn’t make the first move.

“Um, so. Do we tell Nat we kissed?”

Bucky shrugs. “Do you _want_ to tell Nat we kissed?”

“Why is this on me?” Clint asks grumpily, throwing the covers off. “And, I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe not.”

“Well, it’s up to you, Hawkeye.” Bucky smiles. “But if you tell her, maybe we can do it more.”

Clint snorts out a laugh, feeling his throat burn. “What the hell are you playing at, Barnes?”

“Absolutely nothing,” Bucky says with a smirk that absolutely implies the opposite. “I’m just an old man who doesn’t let his opportunities pass by after being wiped and reprogrammed ten million times. Nat’s lucky I remember anything of our past, honestly.”

“Ha.” Clint smiles. “Well, lucky for you, you never have to worry about Nat forgetting anything. She’ll hold your regrets over your head until you die.”

“Or until _she_ dies,” Bucky reminds him. In that moment, Clint realizes how absurd this whole conversation -- not to mention the last 24 hours -- is.

“Well,” Clint starts, getting out of bed. “I mean, it _is_ Natasha.”

“Yeah, exactly.” Bucky winks and walks back out out of the room, having pulled a shirt on over his previously bare chest. Clint waits another moment and then gets dressed, heading to the main room with a stop in the bathroom to wash his face. By the time he’s cleaned himself up, Natasha is sitting on the couch with Bucky, wrapped in a long-sleeved shirt that covers her still-bruised hands.

“Morning,” Natasha says with a small smile, her thumbs pressed firmly around a mug of hot coffee. Clint hesitates, then walks over and kisses her on the cheek. Natasha gives him a gentle but touched look when he straightens up.

“Coffee’s ready, if you want. And James made breakfast.”

He doesn’t even react at the use of Bucky’s real name, moving to pour himself much-needed caffeine. “So, uh. Aside from hiding out and pretending to be dead, what does an assassin do in Moscow aside from sleep, drink tea, and read?”

“Sometimes I take walks,” Natasha offers. “Or I go shopping. You’d be surprised how little people care about me or the Black Widow around here.”

“And how people overseas apparently didn’t get the memo that the U.S. was being run by a Hydra operative,” Clint adds dryly. “I don’t suppose you have any sort of plan about what the hell to do now that we’re all here?”

Natasha cocks her head to one side. “No. Do I have to do anything? Does the world really need me -- us -- right now?”

“Then I guess we should enjoy the vacation,” Clint says slowly. “Hey Bucky, when was the last time you had a vacation?”

Bucky catches Natasha’s eye. “Chernobyl?”

Natasha rolls her eyes. “It never gets old, does it?”

“Nope.” Bucky gestures to the window. “So let’s take advantage of being off the grid and check out some sights.”

“I’d settle for some breakfast,” Natasha adds. “Or a late lunch. Those pieces of toast didn’t do much for me.”

“We kissed.”

Natasha, who has been staring at the ripples she’s blowing into the surface of her coffee, looks up. Even Bucky looks surprised at the words that Clint realizes he’s blurted out without thinking.

He’s got no idea why or how they came out. He hadn’t even been thinking and maybe that was the problem. Whatever Bucky had said in the bedroom, however much he had put the ball in Clint’s court, he hadn’t wanted to do it _now_ , not when him and Bucky were still getting used to being with each other and when things still felt salty between him and Natasha.

“Who kissed?” Natasha asks, as if she’s asking Clint about the weather, and he knows he has no choice but to continue this conversation.

“Bucky and I. We kissed.”

Natasha raises an eyebrow, continuing to sip her coffee. “Really.”

Clint waits, hoping Bucky will chime in on this so he’s not treading water all by himself, but he gets nothing except silence.

“I just thought you should know,” he finishes, avoiding both of their eyes. Natasha clears her throat.

“Been a long time since I’ve seen you kiss a guy, Clint.”

That admission from Natasha -- Natasha, who knows him better than anyone -- causes him to feel suddenly defensive.

“So what?”

“Nothing. I’m just stating facts.” She gets up, placing her mug on the small coffee table, and disappears into the bathroom.

“It was a good kiss,” Bucky offers simply as the door closes.

Clint sighs and puts his head in his hands.

 

***

 

When she’s alone, Natasha does what she’s wanted to do since Clint blurted out his confession.

She laughs.

She has to grab a towel and turn on the faucet at full blast to muffle her sounds through the thin walls, and she’s not even sure why she’s laughing, because nothing about this situation is funny. Except that it kind of is. Bucky kissing another guy wasn’t anything out of the ordinary, not with the way they were brought up and the number of people they’d had to become over the years. Clint kissing another guy was _slightly_ out of the ordinary, if only because while Natasha knew he looked at his own sex from time to time, she’d never really seen him act on it. And being that the reason Natasha had run in the first place was because she was too scared to choose who she wanted to be with as she tried to reinvent herself...well…

She laughs again at the ludicrousness of it all, putting her hand to her mouth to muffle her giggles.

When she emerges from the bathroom, having composed herself, she finds Bucky and Clint in the same positions. Natasha makes a split second decision and walks to the small closet near the door, opening it and grabbing her coat.

“We’re going out.”

Bucky’s head snaps up. “We are?”

“Yes,” Natasha decides. “There’s a bar a few blocks from here that doesn’t get busy until closing time and I’d like to get out of this apartment. Besides, I thought we were all for playing hooky from life today.”

She doesn’t wait for either of them respond, only pausing at the door while they get their coats and shoes before she leads them out of the apartment. It’s not a long walk to the bar; Natasha has frequented it more than once since moving to the Ukranian Quarter, having picked it for its sparse crowd and because she liked the company of the bartender: an older woman named Mishka who had apparently inherited the place from her family.

“Nadine, what a joy to see you in here so early,” Mishka announces in Russian as Natasha enters, her heavily-accented lilt ringing through the mostly empty room. “The usual?”

“ _Obychno_ ,” Natasha confirms as she leads Bucky and Clint to a booth in the back. She slides in on one side, shrugging off her coat and forcing them to share the space across from her.

“You come in here often, _Nadine_?” Clint asks sarcastically.

“Yes,” Natasha confirms. “Just because I’m in hiding doesn’t mean that I can’t be social, or find allies. Besides, you never know when you’ll need shots of whiskey.”

“I suppose two ex-boyfriends kissing constitutes as needing shots of whiskey?” Clint asks as three glasses appear in front of them, filled to the brim with amber colored liquid. He glances up at Mishka. “Thanks, by the way.”

Mishka smiles and walks back towards the bar. Natasha stares at the glass in her hand and downs it quickly, placing it carefully on the table.

“I faked my death because I didn’t want to choose,” she says finally, the words feeling like both a weight and a vice at the same time. Bucky and Clint stare at her in confusion.

“Didn’t want to choose what?” Bucky asks.

Natasha takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly. “Between you.”

Clint blinks rapidly at her response while Bucky remains stoic -- _ever the soldier_ , Natasha thinks wryly -- though she can see his mouth twitching, as if he wants to grin and can’t help himself.

“Nat…” Clint trails off, and he downs his own shot before continuing. “ _This_ is why you pretended to die? Because you didn’t want to hurt us?”

“Because,” Natasha says, looking at each of them in turn. “It was a lot. Steve became someone who he didn’t want to be when he became Hydra. But he could have easily become that person in the first place, if history turned out differently. And I know that feeling.”

“Yeah, but --”

“I know, cosmic cube bullshit, whatever,” Natasha continues, cutting Clint off. “Do you know how hard it was to watch everything get stripped away from him? His friends, his teammates, the world...his _best_ friend.” She pauses, looking at Bucky, who lowers his gaze to the table. “I’m tired, Clint. I’m tired of being what other people want me to be. I’m tired of thinking I have to be who I was _made_ to be. I want a fresh start. I want to love who I choose to love. And that...that terrifies me, because if I had to make a choice, I don’t know _who_ I’d pick. And I couldn’t lose the only two people in my life who I trust. Not when I almost lost everything else.”

“Natalia, you know what the situation is,” Bucky says gently, and Natasha knows he’s using her given name for a reason. “You and me, being who we are...and I kissed Clint, and you guys aren’t exactly strangers to intimacy.”

“I do know,” Natasha says heavily. “I like both of you. I want both of you, and I’ve accepted it.” She waits for the words to sink in. “But I’m not a girl who is used to getting what she wants -- at least, not without strings attached -- and this seems like something I can’t have without strings attached, so I’m not choosing.”

Neither Clint or Bucky say another word, until Clint shifts in his seat and straightens up.

“Yeah, okay.”

Natasha raises an eyebrow. “Okay? You’re just... _okay_ with me admitting all of that?”

“Why not?” Clint asks. “I mean, I already told you that Bucky kissed me. That seems stranger to me than you saying that you like two of your ex-boyfriends. Or saying that you refuse to sleep with either of us unless you can have both of us somehow.”

Natasha swallows, not wanting to admit that he has a point. “I just didn’t think you would be so...accepting,” she says, tracing her thumb against the table.

“Me? The person who runs headfirst into trouble without thinking of the consequences?”

“Ha.” Natasha lets herself smile. “Well, you’re also the person who fought me the most on my supposed death.”

“Yeah, because I _care_ ,” Clint says bluntly. “Because maybe I love you and like you, too, and that never stopped.”

Bucky breathes out slowly. The exhale is quiet, but Natasha picks up on it enough to remember that he’s actually _there_ despite having remained silent since her confession.

“James.” Natasha lowers her voice, until it hits what she knows is a dangerous timber. “Would you be with me, if I asked?”

“Yes,” Bucky replies instantly.

“And given that you clearly find Clint attractive enough to kiss him, would you be with Clint? If he asked?”

Bucky nods slowly. “Yes. Natasha -- look, you know how I feel about you. And I’m not saying I wouldn’t want to do this with all of us. But before you ask _us_ to do anything -- before you make any decisions -- we should think about this.”

“Oh, so you’re the practical one now,” Natasha responds skeptically.

“I’ve _always_ been practical,” Bucky replies.

“Right. Until you came all the way to Russia on a wing and a prayer that I was actually alive.”

“No, that was practical,” Bucky argues. “No way in hell would I have come looking for you if you hadn’t left me that clue with Ivan. I’m smart enough to know when you don’t want to be found.” 

“Why are you telling us this now?” Clint interrupts. He leans forward on the table, and Natasha can tell that he’s getting impatient with their conversation. “You put so much effort into running because you couldn’t tell us what you were really feeling.” His brow furrows, and the bridge between his eyes creases deeply. “Why _now_?”

“Because.” Natasha breaks off to signal for another round of drinks. “I’m tired of hiding. I’m tired of not being able to make decisions. I want you, Clint, and I want you too, James.” She turns her gaze to Bucky. “And I guess now, we have the time to figure it out.”

 

***

 

On the walk home, Bucky pulls Clint aside.

“Are you out of your goddamn mind?”

“About what?” Clint challenges, hissing under his breath to avoid being heard. He’s slightly tipsy, but not nearly enough to lose his head. “Admitting I like Natasha and want to sleep with her -- not that I ever stopped wanting that, by the way -- or telling her I kissed you?”

“Neither,” Bucky says. “But you _do_ realize you agreed to basically having some sort of threesome if that’s what she wants, right?”

Until Bucky said the words out loud, he hadn’t actually thought about it like that. And while Bucky’s confirmation should incite a little bit of nervousness, there’s also a feeling of excitement. He and Natasha had slept together often enough that he knew what to expect from their sexual encounters, but it had been a long time since he’d even thought about sleeping with a guy, much less looked at one and considered how his dick would feel in his mouth.

“Yeah,” he says.

Bucky blows out an exasperated breath. “You have no idea if this is going to work or not. Things happen when you get together like this, sometimes relationships get ruined. Trust gets broken. I know Natasha’s been with both of us, but she’s never been with us together --”

“So you think it’s not a good idea?” Clint crosses his arms, wondering when this shift in their relationship had occurred, given that almost a month ago he had been fighting Bucky on his “go with the flow, throw caution to the wind” attitude as it related to Natasha’s death.

“I just think…” Bucky looks concerned. “I don’t want us to rush into this and fuck things up by assuming things, okay? Just because you want it and I want it, that doesn’t mean that we should force it to happen if _she_ doesn’t want it, or wants something else.”

Clint starts walking again, hurrying to catch up with Natasha as Bucky falls into step next to him. “And _I_ think that you should stop worrying about us. Natasha told us she wanted both of us, and she wouldn’t lie about her feelings -- not to you and not to me. You know that, right?”

Bucky shakes his head and instinctively reaches forward, brushing a thumb against Clint’s stubble as he laughs softly.

“What? Do I have something on my face again?”

Bucky’s grin grows wider. “No. But you’re pretty cute when you’re demanding. Reminds me of Nat.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Clint says, sharing the smile.

“I still think we should talk about it,” Bucky continues. “Let’s at least have _some_ discussion with Natasha before we rush into anything. This is all happening fast, and I want to make sure we’re on the same page. Okay?”

Clint nods, though he wants to say that he knows Natasha pretty well, and he’s kind of sure that blurting out that she likes both of them when she knows nothing is really off limits means they _are_ on the same page. But he’s not exactly looking to run back, break down the door, and have sex, so he’s honestly fine if Bucky wants to have a little more conversation.

When they get back to the apartment, Bucky gives them all of five minutes before he sits down on the floor and throws up his hands in defeat, effectively not allowing anyone to get too awkward.

“Alright. Let’s talk.”

Natasha looks surprised but sits down next to him, while Clint remains standing.

“You like both of us. We like you.”

“I would hope so,” Natasha says with a small smile. “I don’t date dummies.”

“But you don’t want just me. Or just Clint. You want...both of us?”

Natasha hesitates -- Clint sees it, can tell even though it’s an extremely subtle response -- but nods slowly. “I don’t want to make this a choice. I want what I want.”

Bucky bites down on his lip. “Natasha, you know the last time we tried to be together...even just intimately...” Bucky trails off, gesturing to their bodies. “It didn’t end well. We had problems.”

“Well, I fucked Clint randomly in the middle of nowhere before the world ended and then left him, so I’d say we’re on the same page with that,” Natasha replies.

“You said you needed my help,” Clint grumbles as he drops down to the floor into a crouch. He leans forward, putting a hand on Natasha’s cheek.

“Natasha.” Bucky’s voice is gentle and firm. “You’ve been through a lot. You need to be sure. I want this, whatever it is, to be your decision. And we need to make sure --”

“What? That this isn’t some desperate last-ditch act of pleasure, just because I feel lost and broken?” Natasha asks sharply. “I _told_ you, James, I did what I did because I felt too boxed in, because I was scared, because I couldn’t choose. Because I --” She stops, her mouth still forming words but no sound coming from her lips. Clint stands up and glances at Bucky, who looks just as confused.

“Natasha?”

“It’s my choice.”

Clint inclines his head. “Excuse me?”

“It’s my choice,” Natasha repeats, and her eyes are widening as if she’s discovered something in a code that everyone else has missed. “It’s my choice and I don’t _have_ to choose...not if _you’re_ okay with it.”

“With a threesome?” Clint asks before he can stop himself, realizing it’s the second time he’s blurted out something heavy without thinking. Bucky looks exasperated instead of annoyed, though.

“Yes.”

For the second time in only a few hours, Clint and Bucky let themselves grow silent while Natasha picks carefully at a piece of lint on the thin carpet.

“I want both of you.”

Her voice is hard, her words sharp, and her previously clouded eyes are bright. Clint clears his throat, his earlier excitement bubbling to the surface again and causing his dick to stir in his boxers.

“You do?”

“Yes,” Natasha says, reaching for her shirt and pulling it off in one smooth motion. “This previously dead girl wants both of you. So which one of you is going to do something about it?”

Clint knows that if this was just them -- if this was just him and Nat in this little apartment -- he would answer by pushing her to the ground and kissing her before removing her bra with desperate hands. But it’s not just them, something that becomes clear when Clint sees Bucky standing up to pull his shirt off, the top of his jeans already unbuttoned and sagging at the hip.

“First things first,” Bucky says methodically, as if he’s trying to teach them all something they don’t know. “Protection?”

Natasha shakes her head. “You know my history,” she says, looking at Clint. “But if you want --”

“No protection,” Clint decides. “This is our first time and I want to feel you. Both of you. Without some safety barrier.”

“Alright, then.” Bucky smirks, clearly approving of Clint’s decision. “As long as you’re sure. Your move, Barton. What’d they teach you in the circus?”

As much as Clint wants to kiss Natasha, he _knows_ Natasha and he doesn’t know Bucky. The thrill of touching someone new overwhelms him and he grabs Bucky, kissing him deeply and wrapping his arms around his neck. Bucky tastes different than he had during their quick kiss in bed and he also feels different -- electifying and fresh; sparks shoot through Clint’s fingers and down his spine, accentuating the hard-on that hasn’t gone away.

Bucky finally pulls away, his lips wet, and they both turn to face Natasha. While they had been kissing, Natasha had undressed completely, her bra, underwear and pants joining her previously discarded shirt in a heap on the floor.

“What happened to letting us do foreplay?” Clint asks hoarsely, staring at her breasts.

Natasha grins and rises slowly. “I got too turned on watching my ex-boyfriends kiss. Besides, who said we _can’t_ have a little foreplay?”

Clint steps forward and puts his hands on Natasha’s shoulders, dipping his head to take her right nipple in his mouth. While Bucky had tasted new and exciting, Natasha tastes familiar and _right_ \-- a piece of his puzzle that he realizes he’s been incomplete without. He sucks hard, breaking off occasionally to work on her left breast, losing track of time until he suddenly becomes aware of a warm body behind him. He gasps into Natasha’s cleavage as Bucky’s erect cock brushes against his ass.

Clint starts to fumble with his jeans, realizing that somehow he’s ended up being the only one in this situation who is still dressed. Before he can make any progress though, Bucky grabs Clint’s hands from behind, locking them across his back and pulling him upright, allowing Natasha to finish the job.

“Ganging up on me,” he manages when his pants are finally removed, his cock springing free from his boxers as Natasha pushes them down. Bucky nuzzles his neck, his beard scratching against Clint’s scars and sending shivers down his spine as he kisses Clint’s shoulder blades.

“Should’ve seen that one coming, Hawkeye,” Natasha says as she gets down on her knees, before taking him in her mouth. Clint’s entirely unprepared for this turn of events, his knees buckling while Natasha works her tongue over his cock. Bucky steadies him protectively, his wrists trapped in the hold of metal fingers, while the fingers of his good hand trail across Clint’s skin.

“Easy, Barton...don’t get too excited.”

If Natasha giving him a blow job wasn’t already making him weak, Bucky’s whispers and the tickles of his facial hair would have done the job all on their own. He tries to lock his legs into place, even though he knows he’s in no real danger of falling while Bucky has him in his grip.

“Stop,” he says hurriedly, the words coming out forced and breathless. Natasha immediately does, pulling away with her lips red and full, and Clint think it’s a testament to how much they’ve been through that she obeys him without question, despite the playfulness of the whole situation.

“Clint, what’s wrong?”

“No,” Clint clarifies, letting himself relax as Bucky cradles him from behind. “It’s not that. Nothing’s wrong.” His breath is still coming fast, his heart beating too hard against his ribcage. “I just...I can’t come yet. This isn’t fair.”

“Oh.” Natasha nods in understanding. “Well, you should’ve said something. I believe I have some needs that could be taken care of.”

Clint wants to ask how getting Natasha off would be any different because he’s pretty sure that’s going to send him overboard as well, but it’s a tantalizing offer and he’s waited far too long to have her back in this way. He motions for Natasha to get down on the couch, and she raises an eyebrow.

“The couch? Seriously? You think three people can fit on that thing and have sex?”

“Fine,” Clint says impatiently. “Floor, then. On your back.”

Natasha smiles cunningly and obeys. Clint spreads her legs wide before sticking a finger inside her cunt; she’s already wet and he’s able to slide in easily, inserting another finger and twisting upwards causes Natasha to thrust in response.

“Turn me over,” she says with her eyes closed, her head thrown back. Clint wants to protest but he doesn’t, instead using his strong grip to flip her onto her stomach. Natasha pulls herself up onto her hands and knees, arching her back in a move Clint finds far too hot.

“James.”

Bucky moves immediately, getting down on his knees in front of her as if he’s a trained dog, and Clint wonders if this is what it’s like for Bucky to watch him and Natasha during sex -- movements and moments and words that are so much the same, but also different and unique and tailored perfectly to their specific dynamic. Natasha starts to suck Bucky’s cock, slowly and then a little faster, and Clint uses the moment to work his own hand over his cock, keeping himself hard even though he’s pretty sure he’s not in danger of going soft anytime soon.

Clint pushes himself into Natasha from behind. She arches further but doesn’t make any other movement to imply that she’s uncomfortable, so he doesn’t pull out. It’s not like they’d never done doggy style before, but this threesome thing is all new to him, and he knows that as much as Natasha could get into the moment, she would also realize if he was pushing everything too far.

Natasha doesn’t seem to show any sign of slowing down with her blow job, and Bucky’s metal arm has found its way into her hair, his fingers grasping at blonde strands. Clint wraps his arms around Natasha’s stomach, squeezing right above her ribcage, and now he can feel her movements -- her breathing, the way her lungs are working fast against the pleasure she’s building for herself and, no doubt, for Bucky -- and so he feels her react when Bucky comes in her mouth; he feels when Natasha orgasms at almost the same time, pulling off Bucky to swallow. Clint lets go of Natasha, falling forward onto her back as his own cum spills out of him. He rolls off of her and onto the floor, as the energy and orgasm ebb through his body in waves.

For a long time, there’s no sound except for the harsh breathing of all three of them and Natasha’s small moans. Clint finally sits up, realizing he’s made a mess on Natasha’s back, and catches Bucky’s eye.

“Guess I’ve been missing out,” Bucky says when he catches his breath enough. Natasha rolls over, laughing shakily.

“Clint’s tricks aren’t just for arrows.”

“Yeah,” Clint agrees, bolstered by Natasha’s comments. “Next time, I might even use that scarf if you’re lucky.”

Bucky lets out a snort. His hair falls into his face as he pushes himself up and Clint resists the urge to reach over and brush it back.

“Guess Natasha doesn’t need to sleep on the couch again tonight,” Bucky says next. It’s so unexpected and casual after what they’ve just done that Clint can’t help but laugh, Natasha joining him, breathless but amused.

The sounds and sentiments fill the apartment with an atmosphere that’s light and airy, and Clint thinks he can almost see the whole room light up.

 

***

 

Clint insists they shower, mostly so they’re not gross and sweaty when they go to bed. Natasha wouldn’t have argued about that -- and showering after sex was pretty normal in their line of work, except when they were on the road or in the middle of a mission -- but she does feel a little relieved when they take turns washing themselves off and it does turn out to be just a shower. No matter how turned on she still is, she doesn’t think she has any more energy to be intimate tonight.

Besides, there’s a part of her that wants to savor everything that’s just happened. Unlike Bucky and Clint, who were pretty much discovering themselves for the first time, she had the benefit of having slept with both of them before. She knew what to expect but they didn’t, and that in itself was just as exciting as knowing there would be more of this.

Natasha suddenly feels tired, the emotions of the day catching up with her, and as she towels off she catches Clint’s eye. He raises an eyebrow, asking silently if she wants to go to bed, and she shakes her head as she leaves the bathroom to find her pajamas.

Clint and Natasha perch on the fire escape, Bucky joining them after he’s finished in the bathroom. He sits against Clint’s legs and Liho creeps around the iron railings, jumping and landing nimbly next to Bucky.

“That cat’s going to make me crazy,” Bucky complains as Liho nuzzles him. Natasha curbs a yawn.

“Don’t take it personally that someone actually likes you, James.” She snuggles against Clint, feeling content.

“Hey, now. I’ve got _two_ people who like me,” Bucky points out, rolling his head to the side so he can wink at Clint. Clint leans down, tipping Bucky’s head back so he can kiss him.

“So.” Clint lets out a long exhale as Bucky makes himself comfortable. “Are we going to continue to do this?”

“Threesomes?” Natasha asks. “Or talking about our feelings for each other?”

Clint shrugs. “I don’t know. Are you asking for a therapy session?”

“I’m broke as shit and also presumed dead, so I don’t think I qualify,” Natasha responds. “But thanks for the offer.”

Clint laughs softly. “Okay. So maybe this is good for now.”

Natasha stares into the distance, counting the sparkles she can see punching their way out of the dense dark blue sky and watching the moon peek out from behind a tall row of tall buildings. She thinks about new beginnings and fresh starts.

“For now,” she echoes. Liho lets out a soft meow, and Natasha smiles. “But let’s see what tomorrow brings.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> All of Natasha's backstory (Ivan, Niko) taken from her 616 comic history. 
> 
> Find me on tumblr for fic and feelings and more: @isjustprogress.


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